


Vode An: Inkling

by B_Radley



Series: The Laughing Beskad [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Beginnings, Friendship, Gen, Rescue, Sunday Ficlets and Drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 20:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10578885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: A partnership is born in an arena on the Smuggler's Moon.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wild Harp Slung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9353351) by [B_Radley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley). 



The brother stands swaying, facing the huge Iktochi. The opponent snarls, as he feels the blood pouring from the broken horn.

The brother tries to focus his eyes. They have been unfocused for months, after yet another head injury. He remembers a number, but his name escapes him. _CC-5576-39._ He reverses the horn now in his hand.

The crowd is subdued as he stands taller. His gold-brown eyes lock on the enraged face of the Iktochi. The crowd begins to yell imprecations. Apparently someone making the spread against the house is not considered a hero on the Smugglers' Moon.

The Iktochi charges the brother. A brother whose face was once shared by millions. A few less, now, as time passes.

Incongruously, he remembers washing dishes as he manages to sidestep and twist around. The crowd is absolutely still as they watch the clone's opponent stop and stagger.

And fall to the ground with all of the grace of a poleaxed Rancor.

The horn buried in his back.

The brother turns as he sees four thugs moving towards him with blasters and spears. _Apparently, they really don't like underdogs here_. Especially when the chief slug bets against him.

His eyes focus as he stands defiantly, drawing to his full height. _I am a Republic Commando. Who dares, wins._

In the audience, a memory stirs in a helmeted figure. The memory of a apparently younger figure, bound by four of her people, blue eyes staring just as defiantly at her _alor._ A leader who is about to tumble her head into the snow. 

Merely for stopping the slaughter of innocents at his behest.

The clone's world begins to move in slow motion, as it often does these days. He sees a black clad figure descend on one of the shoulders of the thug from the crowd. A black-clad figure with an orange, stylized owl in the center of its chest.

_As if a target._

A short, bright flash of steel whirls in her left hand. The head of her current platform, a Nikto with a vibrospear, flies off.

Her right hand holds a blaster from his borrowed heritage. Three other thugs go down, with wounds in the exact center of their foreheads.

The crowd erupts in anger. The clone captain, even though he cannot see the small figure's face behind the T-visor, can sense a wide grin.

He matches it. _The bringer of chaos._ The crowd's noise turns into screams as she tosses four cylindrical objects in all directions.

The figure beckons to him. As he runs towards her, he hears a modulated voice. "I think we wore out our welcome, _Vod,_ " she says. He can hear the sparkling laughter even in the modulated voice. "Don't worry. I managed to collect my winnings. Think I made a cool million betting on you, sweetie."

He smiles as he detects the warmth, even in the modulation.

Something he hasn't heard in a great while. Not since the warm, but snark-filled voices of his _Vod_ , his Jedi, and a young naval captain.

As they sit catching their breath in the cockpit of an old assault shuttle; as the stars turn to streaks, the figure turns to him. The buy'ce comes off.

A wide grin, laughing dark eyes, bronze skin similar to his own, and a decidedly crooked nose, all framed with pulled-back dark hair, looks out at him.

"So, what's the word, _Vod?_ " The voice grows impossibly, even warmer. "What is your name, handsome?"

He looks at her, his eyes clear. He smiles his own warm smile. "My name is Gregor," he says, for the first time in ages.

She reaches back and touches his face. " _Gregor'ika_ , then. My name is J'ohlana. J'ohlana Wren."


End file.
